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have seen no poem of his which does not contain the material of poetry-thought, feeling, fancy; but in few of them was the poet enabled to give his thought, feeling and fancy complete expression. A specimen or two of his poetry it would be an unpardonable omission not to give, in a volume like this, particularly as his poetic period is past.

The following is a tribute to the memory of one who was the ideal hero of his youthful politics. It was published in the first number of the New-Yorker:


Rouse not the muffled drum,

Wake not the martial trumpet's mournful sound
For him whose mighty voice in death is dimb;
Who, in the zenith of his high renown,

To the grave went down.

Invoke no cannon's breath

To swell the requiem o'er his ashes poured-
Silently bear him to the house of death:—
The aching hearts by whom he was adored,
He won not with the sword.

No! let affection's tear

Be the sole tribute to his memory paid;
Earth has no monument so justly dear
To souls like his in purity arrayed-
Never to fade.

I loved thee, patriot Chief!

I battled proudly 'neath thy banner pure;
Mine is the breast of woe-the heart of grief,
Which suffer on unmindful of a cure-

Proud to endure.

But vain the voice of wail

For thee, from this dim vale of sorrow fled

Earth has no spell whose magic shall not fail
To light the gloom that shrouds thy narrow bed,
Or woo thee from the dead.

Then take thy long repose
Beneath the shelter of the deep green sod:

Death but a brighter halo o'er thee throws-
Thy fame, thy soul alike have spurned the clod-
Rest thee in God.

A series of poems, entitled "Historic Pencilings," appear in the first volume of the New Yorker, over the initials "H. G." These were the poetized reminiscences of his boyish historical reading. Of these poems the following is, perhaps, the most pleasing and characteristic:


"When Nero perished by the justest doom,






Some hand unseen strewed flowers upon his grave.

The tyrant slept in death;

His long career of blood had ceased forever,
And but an empire's execrating breath
Remained to tell of crimes exampled never.

Alone remained? Ah! no;

Rome's scathed and blackened walls retold the story
Of conflagrations broad and baleful glow.
Such was the halo of the despot's glory!

And round his gilded tomb

Came crowds of sufferers-but not to weep

Not theirs the wish to light the house of gloom
With sympathy. No! Curses wild and deep

His only requiem made.

But soft! see, strewed around his dreamless bed
The trophies bright of many a verdant glade,
The living's tribute to the honored dead.


What mean those gentle flowers?
So sweetly smiling in the face of wrath-
Children of genial suns and fostering showers.
Now crushed and trampled in the million's path-
What do they, withering here?

Ah! spurn them not? they tell of sorrow's flow-
There has been one to shed affection's tear,
And 'mid a nation's joy, to feel a pang of woe!

No! scorn them not, those flowers,
They speak too deeply to each feeling heart—

They tell that Guilt hath still its holier hours—
That none may e 'er from earth unmourned depart;
That none hath all effaced

The spell of Eden o'er his spirit cast,

The heavenly image in his features traced-
Or quenched the love unchanging to the last!

Another of the 'Historic Pencilings,' was on the 'Death of Pericles.'

This was its last stanza :

No! let the brutal conqueror
Still glut his soul with war,
And let the ignoble million

With shouts surround his car;
But dearer far the lasting fame

Which twines its wreaths with peace

Give me the tearless memory

Of the mighty one of Greece.

Only one of his poems seems to have been inspired by the tender passion. It is dated May 31st, 1834. Who this bright Vision was to whom the poem was addressed, or whether it was ever vis ible to any but the poet's eye, has not transpired.


They deem me cold, the thoughtless and light-hearted,
In that I worship not at beauty's shrine;

They deem me cold, that through the years departed,

I ne'er have bowed me to some form divine.

They deem me proud, that, where the world hath flattered,
I ne'er have knelt to languish or adore;

They think not that the homage idly scattered
Leaves the heart bankrupt, ere its spring is o'er.

No! in my soul there glows but one bright vision,
And o'er my heart there rules but one fond spell,
Bright'ning my hours of sleep with dreams Elysian

Of one unseen, yet loved, aye cherished well; Unseen? Ah! no; her presence round me lingers,

Chasing each wayward thought that tempts to rove; Weaving Affection's web with fairy fingers,

And waking thoughts of purity and love.

Star of my heaven! thy beams shall guide me ever,
Though clouds obscure, and thorns bestrew my path;
As sweeps my bark adown life's arrowy river

Thy angel sinile shall soothe misfortune's wrath;
And ah! should Fate ere speed her deadliest arrow,
Should vice allure to plunge in her dark sea,
Be this the only shield my soul shall borrow-

One glance to Heaven-one burung thought of thee!

1 ne'er on earth may gaze on those bright features, Nor drink the light of that soul-beaming eye; But wander on 'mid earth's unthinking creatures,

Unloved in life, and unlamented die;

But ne'er shall fade the spell thou weavest o'er me,
Nor fail the star that lights my lonely way;
Still shall the night's fond dreams that light restore me,
Though Fate forbid its gentler beams by day.

I have not dreamed that gold or gems adorn thee-
That Flatt'ry's voice may vaunt thy matchless form:
I little reck that worldlings all may scorn thec,
Be but thy SOUL still pure, thyr war,

Be thine bright Intellect's unfading treasures,

And Poesy's more deeply-hallowed spell,
And Faith the zest which heightens all thy pleasures,
With trusting love-Maid of my soul! farewell!

One more poem claims place here, if from its autobiographi al character alone. Those who believe there is such a thing as regeneration, who know that a man can act and live in a disinterested spirit, will not read this poem with entire incredulity. It appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger for August, 1840.


I mind the time when Heaven's high dome
Woke in my soul a wondrous thrill-
When every leaf in Nature's tome

Bespoke creation's marvels still;
When mountain cliff and sweeping glade,
As morn unclosed her rosy bars,
Woke joys intense-but naught e'er bade
My heart leap up, like you, bright stars!

Calm ministrants to God's high glory!
gems around His burning throne!
Mute watchers o'er man's strange, sad story
Of Crime and Woe through ages gone!
'Twas yours the mild and hallowing spell
That lured me from ignoble gleams—
Taught me where sweeter fountains swell
Than ever bless the worldling's dreams.

How changed was life! a waste no more,

Beset by Want, and Pain, and Wrong;
Earth seemed a glad and fairy shore,

Vocal with Hope's inspiring song.
But ye, bright sentinels of Heaven!

Far glories of Night's radiant sky!
Who, as ye gemmed the brow of Even,
Has ever deemed Man born to die?


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